


The Hounds of Destiny

by QueenTorygg



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, F/M, Gen, Multiple Protagonists, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29515035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenTorygg/pseuds/QueenTorygg
Summary: Unwillingly and unexpectedly thrust into the role of the Dragonborn, Torvi must decide what is more important: the fate of the world, or her own personal vendettas? With dragons, politics, and her own temper as an obstacle, she struggles to come to terms with her own destiny and that of everyone else's.Merlin Falerius was destined to be with Domitia. After being framed for a horrible crime and disowned by his family, he fled to Skyrim, where he struggles to keep himself honest as he prepares to be reunited with her at last.(Some names and elements of the story are inspired by other games, books, and music.)
Relationships: Bishop/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	1. Destiny of Gaudy Design

**Author's Note:**

> After finishing Valhalla, I went back to Skyrim. I loved Eivor, and since I usually roleplay characters that have short tempers kind of like theirs, I was inspired to finally write about one. Forewarning that there are probably some cliche tropes that I am emotionally attached to, and that the story isn't necessarily being diligently planned. I kind of just get inspiration from role-playing while I'm in the game, and I switch between the protagonists at will.

“’Nothing bad will happen.’” Torvi grumbled, pulling against her restraints, and feeling the rope rub her skin raw. Her head was spinning, and she wondered just how long she’d been out. The Nord across from her was too busy arguing with an alleged thief to give her any more information other than the location of Helgen. “Stupid Tryggur.”

Tryggur. Leader of a gang of outlaws uncreatively named after him, and someone who shifted between fulfilling a role as Torvi’s father, brother, or a landless Jarl. The last job he had given her, he claimed would go smoothly. Just deliver a package to Bruma, then come back to Skyrim. Don’t get curious, and don’t stay in one place for too long. It should have been easy.

Although he was sometimes difficult to get along with, it was unlikely that Tryggur would betray her, and even more so through such elaborate means. Imperial ambushes were difficult things to plan around, and for as long as Torvi knew him, he preferred to appear uncomplicated. What was more is that she knew he preferred to deal with his own problems, and would not foist any of his enemies on the Empire.

“Sovngarde awaits,” said the Nord, an almost wistful look in his eyes.

The thief began to panic, praying to all the Divines. Torvi had to admit, at least to herself, that she too was beginning to feel uneasy.

“Look at him. General Tullius, the military governor.” The Nord’s words dripped with venom, and he spat off the side of the cart. “And it looks like the _Thalmor_ are here with him. Damn elves.”

Torvi’s eyes locked onto the figure dressed in black, just as the cart rolled to a stop. She didn’t recognize the Altmer woman’s face, but wearing the robes was enough to spark instant hatred in her belly. _Damn Thalmor,_ she thought, her face contorting with rage.

“End of the line.”

The prisoners were shuffled off the cart and checked off by a list, Torvi was last to join the half-circle at the chopping block. The call for her turn with the headsmen came too soon, but her wide and wild eyes were locked onto the Thalmor woman the entire time she approached the block. It felt like years to get there, each step a replay of Torvi’s hopes and regrets. Faces and robes like those had haunted her thoughts and dreams for years, and now in death.

She remembered rushing out of the door after her father, Ivarr, as he put on a pair of leather gloves and prepared for the work day. They lived next to the mill owner’s home, the door of which was flung open to let out all four of Torvi’s equally wild friends.

“Don’t go far into the woods!” Ivarr warned, but the children were already running for the trees where they began their favorite game: hide-and-seek. Torvi pulled a long straw, earning her the right to hide. When the countdown started, she ran to test out a theory she’d been working on for days. She was nimble, able to effortlessly scale the tree until she was crouched on a branch hanging parallel to the ground, overlooking a dirt path which led home.

Now to wait.

A half hour passed, and there was no sign of her friends. Perhaps they were taking their time. Torvi gave her legs a rest from crouching and sat with them dangling over the side of the branch, with the hope it would grab someone’s attention.

Yet more time had passed, and her bottom lip quivered to think that her friends had given up searching for her. Still, she did not move from the tree for a long while. Perhaps they would remember her soon? When her seat finally began to numb, she began the descent. 

“My! What do we have here?” An unfamiliar voice asked in an unfamiliar accent.

Startled, Torvi nearly fell as she whipped her head around to see a very tall elven man in the path looking up at her, as well as two heavily armed men. The one front and center wore long black robes, the hood of which came to a point that reminded her of a bird’s beak. He lowered the hood once he closed some of the distance between them to reveal golden skin, bright green eyes, shiny black hair, and a well-groomed beard. He reached out his arms as if to catch her.

“Let me help you down.” Torvi shook her head and assured the stranger that she was okay, but he grabbed her regardless. “Don’t be silly, my dear,” he chided, bringing her into his arms. “Breaking a bone is no small matter when you’re a growing child.”

He set her safely on the ground and knelt to be as close to her eye-level as he could manage with his height, offering a warm smile and a small wave.

“Hello.” She said shyly, covering her red cheeks with her hands.

He chuckled and extended a hand, which Torvi took to shake, introducing himself as if he were speaking to another adult. “I’m Inquisitor Aarelion. And who might you be? Jarl of the forest, perhaps?”

She shook her head and timidly introduced herself before glancing behind her, in the direction of the mill.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Torvi. May I ask what you were doing in that tree?” Aarelion stood straight and casually circled the oak that had been her seat for nearly two hours.

“Just playing a game.” She looked down at her feet and wrestled a rock from the soil with the toe of her shoe. “My friends forgot to find me.”

One of Aarelion’s companions snorted, but was silenced by the Inquisitor’s sharp stare.

“I believe that would mean you won.” He assured her. Suddenly, he sighed and lowered his head. “Well… now this is quite embarrassing, but I must confess to you something. I have gotten myself and my friends here utterly lost. Would it be too bothersome to lead us to the mill? It’s on our way to our true destination, and I believe it would be easier to get our bearings there.”

After a moment’s consideration, Torvi finally nodded and gestured for the three to follow as she scampered down the path, secretly praying to the Nine that the sooner they arrived, the sooner they would be on their way.

When they got there, Ivarr was manning the big saw. He looked out over the grounds towards her with his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. He called out to her, quickly shutting the saw down and running down the ramp to meet them.

“Papa!” Sudden gripping fear at the sound of his voice bade her legs to pick up the pace, but she was yanked backwards. One of Aarelion’s hands firmly held her in place in front of him, and the other held a shining blade close to her face.

“Hello, Raven-Feeder!” Aarelion cried. When Ivarr came closer, the Inquisitor rested the flat side of the blade on Torvi’s cheek. She shook, beginning to cry silently, with fat tears spilling from her eyes and dripping off her chin.

Ivarr stopped only a few feet away, raising his hands in surrender. The other workers had their full attention on the scene, but the song of swords being pulled from their scabbards came from behind, and the Thalmor Soldiers ordered everyone to step back.

“Torvi, dear,” Aarelion said, projecting for the crowd, “This particular situation is what one would call _Divine intelligence._ ”

Ivarr took a single step, prompting Aarelion to press the knife harder to Torvi’s face. Her blood ran cold, just as cold as the metal on her skin, which was now angled to cut into the flesh by the corner of her mouth. The tears wouldn’t stop, and the salt burned the slow-opening wound. Now on his knees and with his hands clasped together, Torvi thought she saw tears in her father’s eyes eyes.

“I was a stupid boy with an enchanted axe and a head full of lies. Take me, kill me, skin me alive if you must but I’m begging you; do not punish my daughter.” Begged Ivarr.

“Point to your house for me, Torvi.” Aarelion spoke gently in his demand, but it made her shiver regardless. The Inquisitor whistled after she pointed it out, and one of his soldiers went inside. The sounds of pots breaking and things being tossed around could be heard, but no one moved.

“Please, Aarelion. For the love of Mara--” Ivarr was choking on every word as if there were fire in his lungs. “I would move the stars if you commanded it, just let her go.”

The soldier returned shortly, an amulet of Talos in his hand, and a book under his arm. Both were tossed in the mud between the two parties.

“Did Glinnimir beg?” Aarelion’s voice was a low growl, no trace of any amusement or pleasure. He swiped the blade across Torvi’s cheek and shoved her off to the side.

More blood than she had ever seen before was spilling from her face. Her hands, muddied from the fall, were trying to stop the flow. She screamed her throat raw for her father and was sobbing so hard that she barely able to see as she ran towards him. Ivarr was only allowed to give Torvi a swift kiss on her forehead before his hands were bound behind his back.

One of the Thalmor soldiers summoned a ball of flames and launched it at their home, igniting the thatch roof. The Inquisitor then ordered his men to move out before finally turning towards Torvi, who had been grabbed by one of the workers. Aarelion’s brow was knit, and he wore a hard frown.

“I know about you Nords and your ideas of honor and glory.” He said matter-of-factually. “You may wish to come for me. I will be waiting.”

He was gone, strolling casually from the scene as one would from the market, leaving young Torvi with no father, and a heart full of budding hatred.

“ _No._ ” She breathed as she laid her head on the chopping block and the headsman raised his axe.

_It cannot end this way._

A hateful black shadow descended from the sky, bringing the fires of Oblivion to rain on Helgen, knocking Torvi from the path of certain doom, and on the road to escape.


	2. Absence and the Heart...

_My love,_

_How glad I was to receive your letter! I was unable to stir from bed for days I was so stricken with grief, knowing that you were subject to all the dangers outside these walls. Though it saddens me not to see your shining face, a spring has returned to my step upon learning that you are safe. Your journey through the mountain passes must have been perilous, but I cannot help but marvel at your strength and fortitude._

_As you know, Creon has declared you a criminal, but I should also tell you that he plans to set forth a petition to the Emperor for your arrest. I am doing what I can to mitigate, but my husband is not easily swayed. In the meantime, and it pains me to write these words more than you can imagine, you must not return to Anvil or Cyrodiil. Nor should you send me any more letters until you receive one from me saying that it is safe._

_There will be a day that I shall write that I will be joining you, but Tybalt is too young to make such a journey and I will not leave my baby behind. Once he is ready, I will arrange to leave Creon behind, and the three of us can be a family together. I await the day we will be reunited, all the while aching for the warmth of your touch and the tenderness of your heart. We will not be apart forever._

_I love you, deeply and truly._

_Yours,_

_Domitia_

“Reading that again?” Merlin’s friend, a uniquely blue Khajiit called Inigo, asked as he seated himself at the other end of the bench.

Merlin just finished reading, and was running a thumb over Domitia’s signature. Hurriedly, he folded the letter and returned it to the pocket closest to his heart. The doors to Mara’s temple were massive and the floorboards creaky, yet Merlin had been so rapt with the contents of that piece of paper that he had not heard them open.

“It’s not as though I come to the temple to do anything else. It keeps me focused on my goals; you know that.”

Inigo tilted his head to the side and gave his friend a knowing look, to which Merlin shook his head. “We’re not going to argue about this again.” he said flatly, getting up from his seat.

“But as your friend, I have to ask. Is five years not enough time?” Inigo had also risen, following him through the door. Outside, they at least wouldn’t be at risk of disrespecting Lady Mara.

“Listen,” Merlin turned to walk the familiar path under the platform in the temple, and into the graveyard. “Domitia knows what’s best for her child. Better than you or I know, by far. When the time comes, she and I will be together again. In the meantime. I need a house worthy of them. I need fine food, fine furs, and fine furniture. Most of all, I need the gold to buy all that with.”

They came to a stop in front of a stone sarcophagus, carefully checking their surroundings before nodding to one another. Merlin used the toe of his boot to press the button, and the sarcophagus slid open, revealing the entrance to the cistern. The two men cringed at the noise, but were quick to descend and pull the chain to close it.   
  


“Right.” Inigo said when they dropped into the large room. He kept his voice low, as even the quietest of tip-toeing seemed to echo all too loudly down here. “And how do you intend to get that money?”

Merlin waved to a fellow guild member they passed by on their way towards the flagon, and matched the Khajiit’s whisper. “Bryn said Delvin and Vex have had more work come their way. I’ve never known either of them to give me a job that didn’t pay halfway decently. I do _all_ of those, I’m sure I’ll get in good with Mercer and he’ll--.”

“—And he’ll finally give you some work worth doing.” Inigo said. He sounded as though he was tiredly reading from a boring script.

“I get some bigger jobs, then I’ll have enough to go on the straight and narrow for good, my friend. You’ll see.” 

Merlin threw open the door to the Ragged Flagon and went straight for Devlin’s table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have changed up the timeline a bit here. The Thieves Guild Questline started around 5 years prior to Helgen, and a lot of time has passed since Taking Care of Business. The events of Loud and Clear have not yet happened. I wanted there to be more time for Merlin to establish himself in Riften and with the guild, and have time to form a strong friendship with Inigo. Not to mention the passage of time plays into his backstory, which will be unraveled later. 
> 
> I promise I have more interesting plans for Merlin, and that he's one of my favorite and more complex characters. This was just something short to introduce him early, but I'm going to focus mostly on establishing Torvi's side of things for now. He's got a big part to play in the grand scheme of things.


	3. Wolf and Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Torvi meets a ranger, and reluctantly begins her journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will probably notice Bishop's lines and personality are slightly altered. That's because I personally find some of it to be cringey and sexist. I love the mod, it's fun when you take it at face value and just play, but it's hard to work around when you're *role-playing* a character that would react very differently to some of the things that unfold in that story. Torvi, as I RP her in-game, would have either left him or killed him by now because she has yet to develop that kind of patience. Maaaybe I should have entered him into the story later, but I think their stubbornness will probably help develop both their characters a little more. Also, I'm mean to my characters because I love them and also love causing myself psychological pain. 
> 
> So yes, this is somewhat a fixed version, but I'm trying not to do too many changes to him.

Torvi carefully descended the steps leading up to Dragonsreach and ran a shaking hand over her blonde braids. It had been several weeks since they were done, and had since suffered through snow, rain, dust, and smoke, dulling the color with filth. Definitely time for a bath. She opened the doors to the Bannered Mare and tossed the coin necessary for a room on the counter.

_Dragonborn._ _Thane of Whiterun._

The words repeated over and over in Torvi’s mind, and she scrubbed herself nearly raw. These thoughts persisted even when she dragged her aching body into bed. That wall in the barrow and the stone, they had to have been cursed. Dusty men in the mountains now called upon her to fulfill a stolen responsibility -- Or to punish her for stealing it away.

In the morning, after about four hours of sleep, she rolled out of bed. Her mouth felt like tundra cotton when she swallowed. Her arms and back ached and her legs felt as if they were scrib jelly. She forced herself into her armor anyway, thankful it was all leather instead of iron plating, and re-braided her newly clean hair using a polished plate as a mirror.

She stopped to stare at her own haunted expression. Like she had seen a loathsome shade, the color was muted from her skin. Her freckles on her face and shoulders stood out as sickly grey specks against the white, and the scar on her cheek was like a ragged rope at the corner of her mouth. Her thumb traced that scar, feeling as cold as the blade that made it. She finally wrinkled her nose at her reflection and reluctantly began the day.

Despite her physical exhaustion, the walk to Riverwood seemed to take only a few minutes, like she was stuck traveling at the speed of her thoughts. The gears in her head were still churning and trying to process the past week when she lumbered up the steps to the Sleeping Giant Inn, praying that they would have some dried meat or some cheese and bread to pack for the journey.

Her hand was on the door to push it open, but she paused to address an itching feeling at the back of her brain. Torvi lifted her gaze up from the ground to find an amber-eyed Nord leaning by the door, staring at her. His brow was creased and his upper lip curled in what she could only imagine was disgust. She touched a hand to her scarred cheek, then narrowed her icy-blue eyes at him.

“What are you looking at?” Her voice was low and calm, but her heart was pounding. She shivered, imagining the whole village falling to bits with just a few words.

The man snorted. “You here for someone to kiss your boots, or something?”

“No, shitling, I’m here for food.” She replied evenly.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but Torvi spotted one corner of his lips curling up to form a half-smile.

“Well, I’d join you, but there’s something I’d like to know first.” Jerking his head in the direction behind her, he called her attention to two men just across the road. They were perched on a stone fence, which they had also decorated with empty bottles of whatever they were drinking.

“Did you really not notice those two catcalling while you were walking up here? Or are you so used to those kinds of comments that you turn your nose up at all of them like some damn noble?”

Torvi positioned herself to lean on the opposite side of the door, allowing traffic to come and go. She too crossed her arms, and mocked his artificially debonair smile with one of her own. “Are you looking to get punched?”

“Wha—? Oh, my mistake _, Princess_! Maybe you _would_ like to get to know Drunk and Drunker over there?”

She pushed off of the wall, hands now on her hips. “What would be your suggestion had I noticed them? Give them the attention they want? Pretend to be flattered?”

“I—no. Just give them a wide berth.” He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Obviously.” She huffed.

The man waved her off, finally letting his arms swing down to his sides as he went for the stairs. “Anyway, I’ve got to get going. I was just hoping to ruin their day, but I guess I ruined someone else’s.” He stopped at the bottom of the steps to the Sleeping Giant’s porch, his eyes flicking over her finally, seeming to rest on the spear-like dagger at her hip. “Maybe… maybe I could make it up to you, actually. I’m tracking my wolf and got word of a den full of bandits betting on animal fights. Headed there now. If you wanna blow off some steam, and help me get rid of them, I wouldn’t object.”

Torvi’s lips formed a tight line. On one hand, the idea of traveling with this man was about as appealing as a night in a Giant’s armpit. On the other, the idea of heading straight up the mountain to Shor-knows-what awaiting her was about the equivalent of a blind date with a troll. After a few short moments of consideration, she sighed. “Fine. Where?”

The trip to Eastmarch over the next couple of days was… not as bad as she expected. Though Torvi began it suspecting she would have to fight him, he surprised her by making himself useful and watching her back. She helped him in turn, and eventually their conversations shifted from tense small-talk to something more comfortable.

His name was Bishop and his wolf, Karnwyr, was his only friend. Torvi had to bite her tongue when he revealed that. In turn she told him of the last month, confessing even to her association with Tryggur, and how it landed her in a prison cart with Ulfric Stormcloak. To her surprise, he didn’t try to lecture her for her reluctance to climb the seven-thousand steps, or try to hurry her there.

By the time they reached Cragslane Cavern they were on decent terms, and at least halfway coordinated, which Torvi believed granted them an advantage in the ensuing battle. When all of the bandits, pit dogs, and gamblers had either fled or fallen, she crouched by the body of the leader. She had lodged her dagger in his throat, which she yanked free and wiped clean on his tunic, before standing and spitting on his corpse.

Just as she did, a wolf approached, his head low and his bright eyes wide with curiosity. He was a beautiful creature with golden fur. Smiling, she showed him her hand, which was still covered in blood. He sniffed her carefully, and gingerly licked at the sticky red on her fingers.

“You must be Karnwyr.” She said.

“Hey, you mutt!” At the sound of Bishop’s voice Karnwyr’s ears perked up, and he turned around, wagging his tail like he was merely a friendly puppy. “What were you thinking, getting trapped and making me track you all the way here?” Karnwyr trotted up to his ranger and happily licked his hand. Though Bishop’s expression was initially rather stern, it softened up quickly and he cracked a smile. “There, there. At least you got to rip a couple of their faces off.”

The wolf barked affirmatively, then watched the two humans as they faced each other. Bishop had hung back during the fight, and was not covered in red, but Torvi could see evidence of his participation in the form of many arrows riddling several bodies strewn about. He hardly looked like he had broken a sweat.

“I didn’t think you had it in you.” He said with a smile.

Torvi frowned.

“What’s that phrase? Don’t judge a book by it’s cover? You looked like a scrapper, but nothing like… well, this.” Bishop gestured to her, just as she was using her sleeve to wipe some blood from her face.

“I’m not Arena material by any means, but I can hold my own just fine, Bishop.”

“I see that.” His bow was secured in place on his back, and he gestured with his head to the exit. “Since that’s the case, I’ve decided that I’d like to join you – If you’ll have me, that is. Who knows what kinds of trouble we can find for ourselves along the way?”

“All sorts.” Torvi said quietly.

He gave her a sly smile, one brow quirked. “Hmm. Looking forward to it.”

At this, Torvi’s ears became hot, and she was thankful for the poor lighting and the layer of filth on her face. They left the cave, and chatted a little as they found a place to wash, and then crossed the border south into the Rift. The longer time passed, however, Torvi spoke less and less.

That night, when they finally made camp and settled down to eat a fresh hunt, Bishop sighed and sat next to her by the campfire at a respectful distance.

“Listen… I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I thought we got along well once we got traveling. And I’m grateful that you came along and helped me find Karnwyr. I really am.” The wolf was now curled comfortably, sleeping with a rather large Elk’s bone tucked under his chin. “I meant it when I said I wanted to travel with you, but if we’re not welcome, just say the word and I’ll be gone.”

“You are welcome.” Torvi mumbled. She was hugging her knees up to her chest with one arm, and the other was outstretched, holding a long stick to poke at the fire. “I just have a lot on my mind. The greybeards, I told you about.”  
  


Bishop snorted. “Yeah. A pack of mountain hermits.”

“They have powerful voices, Bishop. You must have heard them calling – all of Skyrim should have. And if you believe the story of how Ulfric killed Torygg, those voices could tear a person to shreds.” Torvi put down the stick and hugged herself tighter, chin resting on her knees.

Bishop cleared his throat and was quiet for a minute. “Well… No way of knowing for sure unless you go there. But why risk it?”

“If I am Dragonborn, then there’s a chance I could find out why the dragons are returning. I could stop it.”

“Why do you care?”

Torvi sighed, waving her hand as if to push the subject away. “There’s no use talking about it, Bishop. I… I need to see Tryggur before I even think of going to Ivarstead anyhow.”

“Right.” He nodded. “Listen. I don’t guess I care about what you do, so long as you don’t try to drag me into something stupid or try to get yourself killed.”

As it was dark, and the day was long, Torvi laid down by the fire, not giving him an answer, She laid facing the stars, the faces of Masser and Secunda like silver and red lanterns lighting her way to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will probably notice Bishop's lines and personality are slightly altered. That's because I personally find some of it to be cringey and sexist. I love the mod, it's fun when you take it at face value and just play, but it's hard to work around when you're *role-playing* a character that would react very differently to some of the things that unfold in that story. Torvi, as I RP her in-game, would have either left him or killed him by now because she has yet to develop that kind of patience. Maaaybe I should have entered him into the story later, but I think their stubbornness will probably help develop both their characters a little more. Also, I'm mean to my characters because I love them and also love causing myself psychological pain. 
> 
> So yes, this is somewhat a fixed version, but I'm trying not to do too many changes to him.


End file.
